The Girl
by KeepCalmAndKeepWriting
Summary: Arthur saves a young girl from being raped, and then has no choice but to take her back to their apartment. As it turns out- Eames is quite good at dealing with traumatised teenage girls...


**So yes, Exams have finished (woop) and I survived, so I'm back to wasting valuable revision time on working on fics :)**

**This one is a little bit darker than previously, and a vague crossover with Mysterious Skin, but if you haven't seen the film it's not a big deal.**

**WARNING: Mentions of rape/violence**

**Despite that- I hope you enjoy it, and, as ever please leave a review if you are so inclined (pre-apology for any typos etc- I am a little lazy on the checking :)**

It was a cold February evening- the air biting at any sliver of exposed skin, almost painfully icy, and, to make things even better, a bitter wind whipped down the streets, billowing and gusting the settling frost.

Arthur shuddered, and turned the collar of his coat up. He was only carrying a small suitcase, but it still prevented him from folding his arms across his chest and preserving what little body heat he had left.

He was in London, or rather, had just arrived _back_ in London after a small but successful job in Brazil. The fact that only yesterday he had been in quite comfortable DEGREES? Made the late winter chill all the more horrible. The job had been simple, and paid-well, which is why Arthur had taken it. Not everything could be exciting; sometimes, it was just a case of keeping the total figure of his bank account at a comfortable $3 million. Eames had been pissed of course. More than pissed. Not only because he was ridiculously offended that the extraction team had asked someone _other_ than him to forge ("But I'm the best in bloody business! Everyone knows that!") but because, not that he would ever admit it, he hated being left on his own. Ever since Arthur had finally agreed to buy someplace _together_, Eames had avoided being left alone at all costs- as though it brought back memories he had decided to try and forget.

Arthur turned the corner, and was greeted by a particularly strong gust of freezing cold air. He had deliberately avoided the tube, knowing what it was like on Sunday evening with all the weekenders going home, but now- the idea of being in warm and wind-free underground was really rather appealing. Still. At least he wasn't far now anyway, 7 minutes at most. He really should let Eames know...

For the 4th time since arriving back in the UK, Arthur pulled his mobile out with a gloved hand, and pressed speed-dial 2.

The phone rang. And kept on ringing.

And then suddenly Eames' warm gruff tone appeared at the other end- "Ah, sorry about this, clearly I can't make it to my phone at the moment- perhaps I'm being held at gun-point and can't pick up, or maybe I'm out cold in some underground cell- or, more likely, it's doing that stupid thing again when it doesn't tell me someone's ringing-" Eames' answer machine abruptly cut him off.

Arthur allowed himself a small smile. Well, if Eames wasn't going to pick up his phone, then so be it. Arthur's early arrival back would just have to be surprise. Maybe that wasn't such a bad idea after all...

Arthur was just considering whether he should bother to try to sneak into the apartment without being noticed and only greet Eames when he found him later in bed- when he heard a cry up-ahead.

Instantly, Arthur's hand went to the gun at his waist. The cry sent shivers down his spine and unsettled him in a way that certainly wasn't usual. It was a female cry. A sobbing, choked off sound, and quite distinctly... young.

Arthur slipped his suitcase into the shadows of a closed shop door-way and moved forward silently, his senses spiking, overly aware of the tiniest of movement around him. There were voices now too. Growing louder, becoming more distinguishable, and seemingly coming from a narrow alley-way off to Arthur's left . He approached slowly, and glanced down into the half-darkness.

He was right.

It had been a female cry.

And she was young.

Very young.

Less like a woman at all and more like a _girl._

Arthur was not unaware of what went on in their local area. It was a rough part of the city, and that was partly the reason they'd chosen it- less well-meaning neighbours to ask polite inquiring questions about their lives. People around here blended in, and that was exactly what Arthur and Eames had tried to do- despite the fact Eames had told Arthur on numerous occasions _his_ attempts left something to be desired unless he stopped insisting on wearing such posh suits the whole time. Still, they were both aware of the main income of money for most of the women around here. And it wasn't cleaning.

But this, Arthur thought, swallowing hard, this was just wrong.

There were four men, burly and tough-looking, surrounding the girl, who was crouched on the floor. They were talking in soft, mocking tones- occasionally reaching out to grab at her hair and clothes, as well as shoving her roughly in the ribs with their feet. The girl cringed away. Then, the tallest man, a hood pulled up to cover his face, got down beside her, and grabbed her arm, pinning her to the wall. Another did the same, and suddenly the girl was fighting with renewed strength, thrashing wildly, kicking out fiercely, because she knew what was coming, they all knew what was coming, and a sickening sense of déjà vu blinded Arthur briefly until-

One man started laughing.

And Arthur saw red.

Without thinking, he pulled out his gun and fired two rounds. The men holding the girl down slumped awkwardly, half-falling on her- mouths lolling open, eyes blank and wide. The other two spun round, yelling in anger, pulling out switch-blades, rounding on him, but Arthur simply shot them as well. Their bodies crumpled soundlessly to the ground.

The alley was very still for a few terse seconds.

Then the girl was shoving the men off her, scrambling to her feet, throwing Arthur a look of terror, glancing frantically around, searching the alley for another way out, some _escape_-

"I'm not going to hurt you," Arthur heard himself say, his voice toneless. He couldn't feel anything. He was completely numb.

The girl met his gaze, her face tear-streaked, and _Christ_ she really was young, no older than 15 at most, and there was blood on her thin t-shirt and she was physically _shaking_ no doubt from cold and shock and god knows what else-

"I'll take you to the hospital," Arthur heard, his voiced just as empty, just as void of feeling. The girl shook her head fiercely, backing up a few steps, whimpering when she almost tripped up on one of the men's legs-

"P-please, no, just, just leave me, p-please," and her voice was cracked and pleading, and still, Arthur felt nothing.

"I'm not going to hurt you," he repeated, "You're injured, I can help," and it finally dawned on him he was still holding his gun. He let it fall to the floor and held up his empty, gloved hands to show he was unarmed.

The girl stared at him, petrified, for a long moment, her teeth chattering in the silence, before the terrified expression slid from her face and she collapsed onto the dirty cobbles.

Eames hummed tunefully as he stirred the soup on the hob. It smelled delicious, if he said so himself, and he was _fairly_ sure Arthur liked Carrot & Coriander. Well, even if he didn't, Eames doubted he would ever know- because as soon as he admitted that _he, Eames_, had cooked something from scratch- Arthur would say he loved it no matter how disgusting it was. Eames felt the corner of his mouth tug into a smile. That was the thing about Arthur. He could tease the hell out of you, and had an unfortunate habit of being severely practical at the best of times, but when it _really _mattered he _always _said the right thing.

Eames absent-mindedly left the soup to simmer, and wandered, still humming, into the living-room to frown at the clock on the mantelpiece. What time had Arthur said he would be home? He really couldn't remember, but he was pretty sure he was meant to be back in time for dinner... Unless.

A sudden thought occurred to Eames and he abruptly flung himself across the sofa, grabbing at his phone on the coffee table. 4 Missed Calls from- Arthur.

"Shit," Eames groaned, slumping against the cushions, scrubbing a hand across his face. Stupid, bloody _useless_ phone. Arthur could have been delayed _hours_, could be injured, could be in serious trouble and fuck all Eames would know about it thanks to retarded Apple and their phones that were built to malfunction. Eames redialled with a sigh. Arthur's last call was only 5 minutes ago, so it was likely he had his phone with him.

The phone rang, and rang, and rang.

The ringing eventually went to the computer generated female, informing he could leave a message if he _really _wanted to, and Eames was just telling her that she could fuck off with her computer generated voice and her 'beep after the tone' when he realised he was recording a message.

Eames hung up, a slight twist of unease in his stomach. Arthur was perfectly capable of taking care of himself, and Eames knew he would be fine, but it couldn't hurt to try again could it?

And again.

And again.

And now Eames really _was_ worried, but there was a funny smell coming from the kitchen, so he took his phone with him and went to stir the soup- fighting down his anxiety.

There was a scuffled sort of half-knock at the door, and Eames was out of the kitchen in an instant, jovially reaching for the handle, flinging the door back without a second thought- a smile already growing on his lips, because it _had_ to be Arthur-

And it was Arthur. But he wasn't alone.

"What the fuck-?" Eames managed, before standing back to let Arthur stumble in. He was white as a sheet, eyes panicked and fucking _carrying_ a bloodied, teenage girl, who lay limp in his arms, wrapped up in Arthur's warm winter coat.

Arthur stood there for a second, breathing heavily, before turning to the couch, and laying her down on it, pulling the coat over her. He looked up and met Eames' bewildered expression. "Med-kit," he said firmly.

Eames quickly and efficiently emptied the entire bathroom cabinet before happening across the multi-purpose first aid kit. When he came back into the living room, Arthur was painstakingly examining the girl's bleeding forehead, his hands gentle against her dark hair, expression one of fierce concentration.

Eames knew better than to ask questions at a time like this, so simply knelt down in silence next to him, and handed Arthur what he needed, a few dressings, a needle and thread, antiseptic wipes. Once he'd completed as thorough examination as was possible without removing her clothes, Arthur stood up to reach for the extra blanket from the back of the arm-chair. His suit jacket fell open, and Eames saw the stark contrast of red against his white shirt,

"Arthur! You're-" he started in alarm, reaching automatically for Arthur, hands closing gently on his wrist in concern- but Arthur jerked away in a flash, yanking his arm free, stumbling back a few steps, breathing heavily.

Eames froze. Hands hug in mid-air, holding nothing. He let them fall, watching the other man warily. What the hell was going on?

"It's hers," Arthur said at last, voice cracked, "the blood, I mean, it's not mine- I didn't- they didn't hurt me. I'm fine."

Eames bit his lip and said nothing, but he was fairly certain that '_fine' _was pretty close to bottom on the list of words he would use to describe Arthur right now.

Arthur picked up the blanket, and draped it carefully over the girl's limp frame. He then pulled over the small space-heater in the corner of the room right up close to the sofa, and set it on a relatively low level.

When he stood up properly again, swaying slightly on his feet, he glanced around the room uneasily, and for one horrible second, Eames thought he was going to cry.

He might not know what the fuck was happening, Eames thought briefly, but he certainly didn't like it.

He got up, and carefully, slowly, reached out to take Arthur's hand. He glanced up at the other's face, searching for confirmation that this was alright, that Arthur wasn't going to jerk away again. He gave a tired nod so Eames pulled him into a tight hug.

Arthur breathed shakily into Eames' shoulder, pressing his numb face into the broad, warm chest. Eames shivered. "Jesus Arthur- you're freezing, come on, let's not do this here..." Eames led them into the kitchen, where the soup now smelt less like Carrot & Coriander and more like charcoal, grabbing another blanket as he went. He switched the hob off, and turned to Arthur, wrapping the woolly blanket round his thin shoulders, rubbing Arthur's arms a little, trying to warm him up. Arthur's dark eyes never left his face.

"Can I get you a drink?" Eames asked gently, feeling a need to fill the silence, "I could do with a mug of tea personally after this but coffee is fine- I would offer you home-made soup, but I'm afraid it is quite possible that it isn't ah- well, edible, anymore, but-"

"They were going to rape her," Arthur said quietly.

Eames stared at him. "W-what?"

"I was coming home, when I heard it happening. Off to the side of the road in an alley. There were four of them, and she was pleading with them to not hurt her- so I shot them. I killed them to save her." Arthur's voice was blank, but his eyes were pained, anxious and, _Christ- __**scared.**_

"You did the right thing." Eames said instantly, because, hell, he knew the strange dullness and sense of self-hate that swamped you after you'd killed someone, even if it was someone who deserved to die. It was impossible not to feel some form of guilt. Arthur was only human.

"And I know I shouldn't have brought her back," Arthur continued, as though he hadn't heard Eames at all, "I should have just taken her to the hospital, because now we'll have to move because she knows our location, we'll have to leave the country, split-up for a while," (Eames tried to ignore the way his chest clenched at that), "and it was foolish of me to just _shoot_ without thinking, without thinking about the consequences, about the danger I'd put _you _ in, because 4 murders in a dark alley is going to make headline news, and I'm so _sorry, _but-"

"Arthur!" said Eames ever so slightly panicked, because Arthur was rambling now and Arthur _didn't ramble_. "It's fine- you did what you had too. We can go to Mombassa, lie low- it'll blow over. You saved her from a god-awful fate Arthur, and speeded-up another 4 sickos journey to Hell. You did what you thought was right, and that's _not_ a bad thing."

Eames felt like he was holding Arthur up now, because although he wasn't physically injured, he's never seen the other man so _frail _before, and suddenly Arthur looked much younger than Eames knew he was.

"You don't understand Eames," Arthur whispered, dark eyes meeting his again. "I did it because I've been in that situation before."

Eames' blood ran cold.

"You, you mean, you've saved someone else- from a similar circumstance-" he started slowly, willing it to be true, but knowing that it wasn't, that the look in Arthur's eyes was there for a reason, that the way he jerked back from Eames like he'd been burned had a reason-

"No, I mean, I was the one that needed saving. But no-one was there. And I wish there had been."

The silence is palpable as Eames took this in.

He had pretty much guessed Arthur's adolescence had not been a happy and safe one. Far from it, in fact. It was never discussed, because Arthur firmly believed that the past was the past, and that he was a different person now, and can we please talk about something less morbid Eames. And yet. And yet Eames had _never_ imagined _anything_ like this. Disgust, and anger and an uncontrollable desire to strangle someone rose within him, and he glared at the floor with some furious rage he didn't know was possible, because he _couldn't_ meet Arthur's eyes, "I- I'm-" he started, not knowing what he wants to say, what he _should_ say because this is just so _awful-_

And then Arthur kissed him. And it was sure and warm and safe and so wonderfully _normal_ that Eames relaxed, just a little.

"Let's go to bed," Eames said quietly when they broke away, and Arthur nodded.

As they passed the living room on the way to the bedroom, Arthur paused for a moment, brow-furrowed. "Do you think we should stay up for when she wakes?" he murmured, voice low, gesturing to the girl on their sofa.

Despite the situation, Eames felt an over-whelming surge of fondness at Arthur's automatic concern.

"No pet, I don't think someone standing over her when she wakes up is the best way of dealing with this. She's been through a lot- she'll probably sleep through the night anyway..." Eames reassured him, steering Arthur towards the bed, and peeling away the cold jacket and bloodied shirt.

Arthur slipped out of his trousers, and crawled into bed. Eames joined him seconds later, and jumped when Arthur instantly pressed his cold limbs up against Eames' warm body. He wrapped a careful arm around Arthur's waist, and stared at the shadowy outline of his face. Arthur was tired, but the muscles in his jaw were tensed.

"Arthur- if you want, you can talk-"

"I don't want to talk about," Arthur said instantly, his tone harsh. "Not tonight," he added a little softer.

"But Arthur," Eames persisted, anxious, because he so badly wanted to take these memories away from Arthur, take the _pain_ away, "I- I don't know what to do. I didn't realise anything that- that," he struggles to find a word that expresses his feelings towards this and fails, "_horrible_ happened, and I want to help you, but you have to let me know because I'm rubbish-"

"Eames," Arthur mumbled quietly, a finger-tip against Eames' lips, "you are helping. You are... _being_, you are existing in my life and you love me and care about me. You couldn't _do_ anything more, so please, just leave it, just for tonight."

Eames stilled for a moment fighting with the desire to argue otherwise but deciding he really _couldn't_ refuse Arthur when he sounded so exhausted and hurt. So Eames tightened his arm around Arthur's waist, closing his eyes against sudden hot tears, and pressing his lips to Arthur's forehead.

"I love you," he breathed, because if loving Arthur is going to help- well, loving him he will do.

Despite the fact Arthur seemed immensely tired, he was tensed and coiled like a spring, trembling slightly with emotion, so it was still a good hour before he at last dropped off to sleep. Eames had tried to help as much as he could, gently rubbing small circles with his palm against Arthur's back in time with his breathing, and getting slower, and slower and slower. It had finally worked, and now Arthur was limp and relaxed in his arms- but Eames was still a long way from sleep.

The events of evening were churning themselves over in his head, and he felt restless, unsettled and a little shell-shocked, and he couldn't help think about _what the hell were they going to do with the girl?_ He rifled through dozens of possible solutions, before eventually dropping off into a fitful doze.

In the deep, warming, muddlement of sleep, Eames was vaguely aware that something was wrong. Very wrong. A creak. A noise that had penetrated his blearily state of consciousness, a sound that his brain had filtered through, had allowed to enter his hazy awareness because it was important. It was a warning. And then- a click. A click that was all too familiar and instantly jolted Eames into alertness.

He stayed very still, keeping his arm resting on Arthur, focusing his entire being on listening, straining to hear for any more noises in the dark quiet, aside from Arthur's measured breathing. Then, the faintest shuffle of clothing, the whisper of material against material and he slowly looked round.

The girl was standing next to the bed, Eames' gun in her shaking hands, eyes wide and alarmed in the half-light. Eames withdrew his hand slowly from Arthur, and, ever so carefully, lifted himself up into a sitting position, switching on his bedside light in the process.

The girl took a step back, fear evident in her expression, raising the gun to Eames' head.

He lifted his hands up; out from underneath the covers to show her that he was unarmed. The gun stayed pointed at his head. He tried to meet her gaze, but the girl's eyes were flitting around the room, mad with panicked indecision.

With a muffled yelp, she suddenly seemed to notice that they were not the only people in the room, and shifted the gun to point at Arthur's sleeping frame behind Eames, a stricken look of recognition on her face. Because this was a man from the alley. And the alley had been a place of pain and fear. And that was all she knew.

Eames tensed at the gun's change of target, glancing quickly over his shoulder at Arthur. Arthur was still blissfully unconscious, his dark hair mussed up by the pillow and falling across his face, arms curled up slightly around his head in a protective gesture, knees drawn up a little under the duvet. He looked unbearably vulnerable in sleep, utterly helpless and completely exposed. His life was in Eames' hands this time.

Eames shifted a little and, as expected, the girl's gaze flickered back to him. The gun however, remained pointed at Arthur, and that only unsettled him further.

"Please don't point that at him," Eames said quietly, voice low and serious, breaking the silence. The girl flinched as if he'd slapped her.

"He's just fallen to sleep- he's tired," Eames continued gently, but the girl seemed frozen, as though locked in a trance. With a small sigh, Eames moved slightly up the bed, into the line of fire, effectively shielding Arthur with his body.

The girl's expression faltered, as though confused by this sudden show of humanity. The gun in her grip shook more violently.

"He's not who you think he is. Arthur was the one who saved you," and the girl's eyes flickered up at that- at the mention of a name, just like Eames expected them to, because it is far harder to shoot someone when you know their name.

"You can call me Eames," he added for good measure, "and, if you want to leave, I can unlock the door and let you go right now. If you want to talk about it though, I'd be quite happy to make us some hot chocolate, or tea, depending on which you prefer, and we can sort everything out." He said slowly, "However, before any of that happens, you need to put the gun down because frankly it's a little unnerving." He finished, keeping his tone even and warm and pleasant, because this girl was like a bloody time-bomb and he needed to tread with care.

The gun fell to the floor.

Eames offered her a smile, and gently moved out of the bed, trying not to disturb Arthur, and pulled on a pair of joggers, because it really didn't seem appropriate to wander around in his boxers with a teenage girl.

The he gestured to the door, and when the girl doesn't move he decides she wants to be able to see him at all times, which is quite understandable, so led them to the kitchen. According to the cooker clock, it is 4:56am. He switched on the light, and began setting about boiling the kettle.

"You don't seem like a rapist" the girl suddenly said from behind him, her voice hoarse and a little shaky.

Eames dropped a tea-bag down the sink before recovering himself. He turned, and gave her a faintly amused smile.

"I can assure you, that even if I _was_ I wouldn't be interested in you anyway, no offence of course, but well- you're not exactly my _type_," he finished with a wink.

"You're gay," the girl commented mildly, sounding almost pleased by that fact, and Eames almost lost his grip on a tea-cup, before giving a small chuckle.

"Unquestionably so," he said dryly, and holds up the milk. "Tea or hot chocolate?"

"Hot chocolate please," and now the girl was smiling a little, and Eames wondered how surreal this must be for her, being served tea at 4 in the morning in some unfamiliar apartment by a shirtless gay stranger.

"Now- how about you tell me your name, hmm?" Eames inquired lightly, stirring in the milk and glancing up at the girl.

"Freya," she said without missing a beat, before biting her lip, and frowning as though she really shouldn't have given her real name.

"Don't worry- secret's safe with me," Eames promised kindly, and he handed her her mug, "lovely name by the way."

She smiled properly at that, and _Jesus_ she really _was_ young, and Eames' stomach twisted again at the thought of what had very almost happened to her.

"And how old are you Freya?" he asked warmly, because she was responding far better than most to Eames' various methods of making people feel more comfortable- so it only made sense to continue with them.

"17" she answered immediately, and although she had said her real name instantly, _that_ was a little too quick, and Eames was fairly sure she was lying anyway.

He raised an eyebrow and surveyed her over the tea cup.

Freya's resolve crumbled instantly under his gaze, "okay, 16...nearly." But she was still lying because she was worrying her lip and not meeting his gaze. The silence dragged on.

"Fine. I was 14 a month ago," and Eames spluttered on his tea, choking slightly, because he thought she was young, but not _that_ young.

"Are you alright?" she asked anxiously as Eames struggled to get his breath back, his eyes watering. He waved a dismissive hand at her.

"Do your parents know where you are?" he managed eventually, reaching for his phone, because jeez, the girl is practically a _child_.

"No, but I wouldn't worry about it, they probably don't even realise I've gone, let alone care," and her tone was bitter, eyes falling to the floor.

And Eames looks at her, _properly_ looks, because this sounds like a difficult home to him, and an assessment of appearance normally gives away these kinds of things.

She's quite small for her age and a little too skinny (underfed), with short mousy brown hair that stops abruptly at her shoulders (cheap haircut, probably done at home) and wide dark eyes. Her clothes are the same dirty and bloodied ones she was in yesterday because no way in hell was Arthur going to take them off last night, but despite that Eames can tell they are hand-me-downs- the design on the t-shirt barely visible after so many washes, her woollen cardigan worn, her jeans a little too long, shoes scuffed to within an inch of their lives, and yeah, it's pretty clear she's from a poor background.

Eames realised he'd been looking too long, and met her slightly confused gaze, smiling briefly, and watching as she automatically returned it. Just as expected

"Well, you can leave whenever you like sweet-heart," he promised, wanting to make sure that she always knew that the option was there.

Freya nodded, but looked almost down-hearted at the prospect, which was just _completely_ absurd, because she has been through a terrible ordeal and woken up in a strange place and found a bloody _gun_ lying on the coffee table- but then it occurred to Eames. She is from a family that doesn't care about where she is, that might not have even noticed her disappearance- and here is Eames, offering her tea and talking to her and being _nice_, something which may not happen often. Eames' chest clenched so tightly it hurts.

"Do you want to talk about last night?" he asked suddenly, because he felt a duty to do so, and really, _anything_ could have happened before Arthur had gotten there. "Do you need a doctor?"

"No!" Freya blurted out quickly, panic returning to her eyes, "No, I'm fine, I don't remember much, only that I was scared. They didn't- they didn't hurt me in..._that_ way. They didn't get a chance..." and she tailed off, biting her lip, before snapping back, "Anyway, you seemed to patch me up mostly," and she lifted a hand to the dressing on her forehead, smiling slightly.

"Yeah, well," Eames huffed, "Arthur takes most of the credit for that- he's far better at first aid than me-" but he stopped abruptly because Freya looked suddenly anxious and was glancing at the door, as though she's nervous Arthur will burst in, gun in hand- and it pained Eames to know that she had only seen Arthur in that way.

"He saved you, you know," he said quietly, and she whipped back to face him-

"Oh, I know, and I'm grateful but-" and she glanced up at Eames shyly, almost _guilty_ for still being afraid.

"Arthur was in the military." Eames said softly as way of explanation, "He was trained for all kind of situations, so I understand he's a bit, well, scary. Hell, _I _think he's a bit scary sometimes- but he's really not like that at all. Not a softy as such, but gentle and kind and really rather sweet at times- which is why I'm so ridiculously in love with him," and Freya blushed slightly but seemed to have relaxed a little and had stopped glancing at the door.

"Anyway," Eames asked casually, "what do you like to do? Any interests? Wait- you're 14 right? You don't like _Justin Bieber_ by any chance do you? Or I might have to throw you out-"

Freya giggled at that, her eyes creasing up. She shook her head. "Christ no!" she told him with a smile, "He can't sing to save his life."

"_Tell _me about it, more auto-tune than voice if you ask me, and the _hair?" _Eames pulled at his own in mock disgust. Freya giggled even more.

"He's worse than the people on X Factor," she managed, grinning at Eames' groan of horror.

"You don't actually _watch_ that shite do you? I'd rather be forced to play an extra in High School Musical..." he muttered darkly and now Freya was really laughing, and wiping away tears, and although Eames dosen't want to wake Arthur- he can't help but let her, because _this_ is what 14 year old girls should be doing. Not getting attacked in dark alleyways in the middle of the night.

He smiled, her happiness infectious, while Freya pulls herself back together. "No, I don't watch X Factor, but my Mum and sisters do," she spun a finger in a circle by her ear, eyebrow raised knowingly- the universal sign of 'Don't Ask Me, They're Crazy'.

"Mm, definitely-" and Eames copied the hand movement, but clearly failed because Freya was grinning again. "So, what do _you_ like to watch?"

Freya suddenly went shy, ducking her head, shuffling her feet, and it was really quite refreshing, Eames thought, to be with someone who wasn't constantly hiding their emotions or trying to give off a certain personality. This girl, young and naive, did and said exactly what she thinks and feels- and it was as easy to read as an open book.

"Well...I don't really like television. I like school- I'm rubbish at maths and science even when I try because it's so confusing, but I love art, though I'm not very good," she said quietly, and, Eames thought with an internal wince, it made sense-liking school more than home- especially if home was pretty crap.

"There is no such thing as being bad at art," he scoffed, "'beauty is in the eye of the beholder'- has no-one ever told you that?," he asked with a smile, and watched as her gaze slid up to meet his. She shook her head.

"Well, I like painting" she continued, "but we don't have many supplies at my school- and, well, my teacher says my style is too 'abstract'" Freya frowned, and rather than mocking her teacher's extremely narrow-minded assessment, she seemed to be completely convinced that it was the truth.

Eames closed his eyes briefly, because it just _pains_ him to see how little self-confidence this girl has, and it really isn't bloody fair that articulate, intelligent and polite people are born into crap families.

He set down his empty cup.

"Right, follow me."

Eames led them into the living room, and over to the wall next to the book-case. Hung by the window was one of Eames' all-time favourite pieces of art, as well as the best forgery he had ever done. It was a simple abstract work- a mash and blend of contrasting colours, swirls and tone- but was completely captivating in Eames' opinion. Try as he might, he has failed to persuade Arthur to be just as inspired ("Eames, it's paint. On a canvas. Nice colours and patterns and all- but just paint")

Freya scrutinised it with the air of an art collector, leaning in to get a closer look, then backing up to see the whole thing. "I think I've done something like this before, after school, but I know it from somewhere else too...is it famous?" she asked slowly, and Eames grinned.

"Well done, it's relatively well-known, but still pretty impressive for someone your age to recognise," Freya blushed instantly at the praise, "this is my absolute favourite artwork. This isn't the real one of course, only a copy, but guess how much the original random, mess of colour sold for at auction?"

Freya looked up, wide-eyed and clueless. She shrugged, and went back to the artwork. Eames leant forward to whisper in her ear-

"£7 million," Freya looked at him in delighted wonderment.

"Really?" she breathed, eyes bright, and Eames could just _see_ the cogs turning as she decided on her future career in that moment.

"Really," came a dry voice from behind them, that made Eames jump a little in surprise, and Freya yelp in terror. She instantly hid behind Eames.

Eames looked up to smile at Arthur, who offered a weak smile in return. He looked _exhausted_, dressed in sweatpants and a t-shirt, and ran a hand through his messed-up hair. He met Eames' gaze, and looked pointedly at the girl, half-obscured from view, his eyes questioning. Eames shrugged with a grin.

"Arthur, this is Freya, Freya- now don't worry pet, remember what I told you- this is Arthur," and Eames side-stepped so Freya couldn't hide behind him.

Freya was shaking slightly, and her eyes were fixed on the floor- the look of panic returning. Arthur looked... well, pained. He sighed and took a step closer.

"Hi Freya," he said quietly, in a gentle tone he only used with Eames when Eames was feeling ill. "I know this is probably a bit weird and strange, and I'm really sorry for what happened to you, but I just want to explain that-"

"Are you Eames' boyfriend?" Freya asked abruptly, as abruptly as when she had dropped the 'are you gay?' comment on Eames, and Eames chuckled when he saw Arthur do a double-take.

"I beg your pardon?"

"Is Eames your boyfriend?" she gestured to Eames standing by her side in case Arthur had forgotten, "I mean, you were sleeping together so..." Arthur looked a little bewildered and glanced to Eames.

Eames raised an eyebrow expectantly.

"Yeah, I guess so," Arthur replied slowly, then when Eames gave a mock look of hurt over Freya's head, he corrected himself, "I mean yes, yes Eames is my 'boyfriend'," and he frowned at the strangeness of the word in his mouth because it was not something he'd ever said out loud before, and Eames bit his lips to stop himself from laughing at Arthur's expression- which really wasn't helping. "Why- why do you want to know?" Arthur asked.

And then suddenly, Freya had crossed the room and put her arms around Arthur's slim frame and _hugged_ him and Arthur seemed completely taken aback and _way_ out of his comfort zone- but, he was being hugged by an emotionally damaged teenage girl and he really had no choice but to hug her back, cautiously tightening his arms around her back and ducking his head slightly to return the embrace.

Eames smiled and thought he might cry.

"Thank-you, for saving me, I mean," Freya mumbled into Arthur's chest, and a brief flash of fierce emotion flits across Arthur's features, and his eyes clenched closed for a second too long, and his arms tightened a little more, and now Eames really _was_ going to cry-

Then Freya pulled away and glanced over at the clock.

"Shit- I've got to get to school," and she searched in panic for her cardigan, and seized it from the armchair.

"I'm sure your parents won't expect you to go to school today- tell them what happened and take a day off," Arthur said, frowning at the idea this girl still felt an obligation to go to _school _after everything that had happened-

"No, no I want to go to school," Freya reassured him with a small smile, "anyway, it's art today," and she gave Eames a side-long glance. Eames winked at her.

"Well, let me at least drive you home," Arthur argued, concerned, "I can explain what happened to your parents-"

"No! No- you can't tell them, ever, promise me, please," she pleaded, looking between them desperately, "they'll- they'll be cross with me."

"To hell with that, you almost got-"and Arthur was angry now, looking across at Eames for support.

"Arthur. Leave it, it's fine," Eames told him firmly, and Arthur lapsed into a reluctant silence. Freya smiled at him gratefully, before turning to the door.

"Whereabouts do you live sweet-heart? Can you make your way home?" Eames asked, going to unlock the door.

"Yes I think so- I only live round the corner, just up at the estate- flat 568, I know my way pretty well around here."

"Good, well, take care of yourself Freya- and I hope to see one of your paintings selling for millions within the decade," Eames said teasingly, reaching out to squeeze her shoulder. She grinned at him- before her smile slips from her face, expression anxious.

"I will see you again though- right?" And _lord_, it was such an innocent request that Eames could never hope to up-hold, and he really didn't want to lie to this girl.

"Sure pet," he heard himself say with an easy smile- "I'll see you around," and Freya beamed (Eames _swore _he is going to hell) then turned down the hall and looked back only once, to give a half-wave, before disappearing from sight.

Eames slumped against the wall, feeling deflated, scrubbing a hand across his face, suddenly feeling the night of 4 hours sleep.

Arthur closed the door, and pressed up against Eames, nuzzling against his jaw.

"I hate lying to children," Eames confessed, closing his eyes, content in feeling Arthur's warm body against his.

"You had to. It's safer for her."

"I know, I know- but still..." and Eames trailed off, feeling horribly guilty. Arthur pressed his lips against Eames' cheek reassuringly, and they lapsed into silence.

"Thank-you," Arthur murmured a while later into Eames' collar-bone.

"Hmm?"

"For handling that so well. I'm not sure I could have. I woke up as soon as you got out of bed, but I stayed away because I thought she might be afraid of me. I could only vaguely hear what was going on, but I could tell you were fantastic with her," and Arthur's tone was so sincere and honest, that Eames almost felt embarrassed.

"Hey, I'm a forger, it's my job to make people feel comfortable so they don't suspect," he said quietly, reaching a hand up to run his fingers through Arthur's hair.

"People, Eames, not traumatised 14 year old girls. Honestly, she was almost raped last night and you got her _laughing_ in the space of an hour, I don't know how you do it."

Eames smiled a little sadly, "well, she's a lovely girl, free-spirited and all that, shame about her family situation though- sounds like they don't give a shit about her, doubt they even know she can _do_ Art, if only-"

And Eames froze, a slow languid grin spreading across his features. Arthur paused in pressing kisses along the underside of Eames' neck.

"What?" Arthur asked, but Eames' grin just grew even wider, "Eames, what is it, I know that smile and-"

"Arthur, I have just had the most _brilliant_ idea-" Arthur groaned in exasperation, head falling against Eames' chest.

"Oh God, please no Eames, we've only _just_ finished sorting out your last 'brilliant idea'-"

"No Arthur, this one really _is_ brilliant-"

"You said that last time," Arthur deadpanned, brow furrowed, and Eames can't help but chuckle.

"Stop insulting me darling, honestly, you have no faith- now, you go pack for our quick getaway and sort out plane tickets, and I'll just organise my simply _ingenious_ little idea," Eames beamed brightly, and ducked away from Arthur's hold against the wall.

Arthur sighed, and shook his head with a smile.

Sometime later, Arthur appeared in the bedroom doorway and frowned at Eames, who was hunched over his laptop on the sofa.

"Eames."

"Not now pet, I'm really rather busy," Eames gave him a quick smile.

"Eames. Does your ingenious idea have anything to do with the fact our joint bank account has just been depleted by almost £50,000?"

Silence.

"Eames," Arthur said, tone warning, and Eames glanced up, expression sheepish.

"Yes, okay, it does, but truthfully darling, it really _is_ a worthy cause-"

"Explain. Now." Arthur ordered darkly.

Eames looked up again, eyebrow raised, "are you really going to threaten me standing there with your shirt all open?"

Arthur's eyes narrowed.

"Just you watch me."

And Eames paused for the briefest of moments, taking less than a second to gauge how serious Arthur was being, before throwing his head back and laughing and laughing.

"Freya! Tell the boys to shut the fuck up, before I come out there and shut them up for good!" her mother screamed from the bedroom.

Freya closed the door to the living room with a sigh, muting her brothers' shout and yells, as well as the blare from the television. She tugged on her converses and reached for her school-bag as she made for the door.

"See you later Mia," Freya said, trying to sound cheerful as her older sister appeared at the end of the hall. Mia threw her a filthy look, before pushing past without a word. Well, always worth making an effort, Freya told herself grimly.

A shadow of moment against the frosted glass of the front door made her look up. The post.

The free local newspaper was lying on the mat, the headline huge and glaring- **4 FOUND SHOT IN ABERSEND**. Underneath were 4 mug shots of different men. Freya shuddered, and quickly dropped the paper insider the front door. There were two letters underneath the paper. One, an official looking white document with the words FINAL NOTICE in red print emblazoned on the top, and then, a smaller, thicker, brown envelope, with no stamp- only a two words.

_For Freya_

Hands shaking, Freya dropped the Final Notice on top of the newspaper, and turned the letter addressed to her over. Scrawled on the back in rough, loopy hand were the words-

_I always wanted to go to Art School- but never got the chance. We'll meet again when you get a painting to auction- that's a promise, _

_Eames x_


End file.
